


To Make Amends

by AdelineAround



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ares has a Pain Kink, Bottom Dionysus, Canon Compliant, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marking, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rimming, Rough Sex, Simultaneous Orgasm, Top Ares, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelineAround/pseuds/AdelineAround
Summary: You are the god of war.Ares.So how, how did you get yourself in this predicament?In which Ares gives Dionysus, god of wine, a good dicking.
Relationships: Ares/Dionysus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94





	To Make Amends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WikiDial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WikiDial/gifts).



> Inspired by WikiDial’s wondrous art of Ares and Dionysus, which you can find [here](https://twitter.com/dialwiki/status/1345492601571598337?s=21).

You like to think of yourself as strong, unyielding and well versed in combat. You like when people call you cutting-edge, sharp and unforgiving as a blade; they are mere mortals who do not possess the boiling golden ichor that runs through your veins. You can outdo any number of foes with a swing of your sword. Nothing can sneak behind your back and take you unprepared.

You are the god of war.

Ares.

So how, how did you get yourself in this predicament?

Something scratches at the nape of your neck, followed by soft kisses that overheat your umber-toned skin. Arousal blazes within you, the fire deepest in your loins. You cannot help but reach out to hold the body in front of you. Your hands, proudly callused from meticulous hours of martial training, grip at firm muscle. They wrap around a waist that is entirely too perfect to be anything short of tempting. Sinful, even. But what do you know? Without meaning to, you give into the kisses being laid upon the crook of your collarbone and tilt your head to give more access.

That body in front of you presses their chest to yours, their back arching so your bellies may touch. Finally, they rotate their hips in a circle beneath your grasp and grind into the growing godhood between your structured legs.

“Dionysus,” you hear yourself whisper.

Dionysus chuckles at your call. His mouth trails up, up, up until you feel his breath at your ear, which is tinted red from your rising temperature. He nibbles at your ear lobe as he gyrates against you.

“Like that, do you?” He sounds ever smarmy, and you can immediately imagine the mischievous glint that holds in his violet eyes.

Amidst an excited tremble, you find your tongue, “Do not mock me.”

“Why would you think I’d ever?” Dionysus stops licking the shell of your ear and drags his prickly stubble long your chiseled jaw. “Don’t you know I just want to make amends with you, man?”

Amends for what? You furrow your brow, but Dionysus’ lips are already upon yours, wiping away any thoughts that go beyond what is at the forefront of your mind; him.

Your breath mingles with Dionysus’, and you taste the sweet tartness of the wine he drinks. It is intoxicating, you and he both know it, and you let yourself indulge for once. From puckering your mouth against his, you take it for a turn, changing the ambience. You use your godborn viciousness to devour him, eyes sliding shut the same time as his. When Dionysus’ tongue invites you to play, you bring him into your mouth and suck on him until he is moaning.

It is only when your lungs tell you that you have not been breathing, that you let up and break the kiss for an inhale. As an immortal, you do not need to breathe, but the thought alone makes you do it anyway. After all, you still need air to rush through your windpipes so you may talk.

“On your knees,” you command, voice aloof amidst the chaos that is building inside you. The urge to ravish, to rage and possess, are all emotions you feel when there is war. You feel it right now, and you relish in it.

How is it that Dionysus, the god of wine, can make you do so?

“So this is how you prefer it, eh?” Dionysus gives you a quick smile, and obediently sinks to his knees. He looks beautiful like this, looking up at you as you stare down at him.

This is not exactly what you want, though. You do not wish to have him service you, to be docile and compliant. You want to go after him, to push him to the ground and invade him like you do with territory.

You let your actions speak for you. You take Dionysus’ tight curls in your hands, roughly, seizing his head and jerking it up, chin forward. You see the wince of stinging pain pass over his face and nearly lick your kiss-swollen lips at it. The rush of excitement leads you to drag him to your bed by the hair, like he is a spoil of war you have earned.

Throwing him on the plush surface of your pallet, you watch him as he grunts at the force. The decorative grapes swing from the leopard skin he wears over his shoulders, same does the fruits adorning his locks. Where your favored color is red like blood shed on a battlefield, Dionysus’ is a shade of purple that only he can pull off with his complementing ochre flesh. He is handsome, extremely so, for a god that otherwise would not catch your attention.

Except Dionysus _does_. Some may say that he and you go hand-in-hand amidst war; with fighting can also come madness and rage, triumph, and later, festivity. You do not understand it all, perhaps, but there is no doubt that you feel something for Dionysus when he is around.

Satisfaction lays hold of you when you join him on the bed, crowding him with your mass. You hover above his form, caging him in, as you contemplate what to do next.

Dionysus decides first, “Kiss me.”

And why would you not?

You oblige him, pressing him flat into the sheets with your weight. Your mouths eat at each other, and you feel the scratch of his stubble send itching pricks on your face. It is delightful. You soak up the feeling and rake your fingernails across one of his pectorals, over the nipple that resides there.

He cries out in shock and you take it into your being, letting it fuel you.

Dionysus starts pushing at your armor as you score his chest with your nails. He pushes you away so he can get a word in, “Please.” He tugs at your armor again.

You get the gist.

“Fine,” you say, and get down to business.

Removing your armor has never been a task you like to do, but it feels necessary in this moment. You unbuckle and undo the straps and pteruges on your person, lifting off the bronze that encases you. Dionysus gazes at you like he wants to worship your body with his entire being. Lust clouds your judgement as your armor clangs on the ground. Your chiton flutters off your frame when you untie the knots that keep it together. You stand proudly in the buff, content to show off your godly assets.

It is then that you find it unfair that you are bare and Dionysus is not.

“Well?” You gesture loosely at him, but he is frozen at the sight of you.

“Has anyone told you just how attractive you are, my good lord?” He sing-songs, drunk off your body already, even though you two have done nothing but grope and kiss a little. Even sitting on the bed, his gait sways slightly.

You click your tongue in impatience. Words like that do not phase you, not when they are coming from a drunkard. If Dionysus will not unclothe himself, you will do it for him. Getting into position, you straddle him and rip the animal skin from his figure. The bronze clasps snap and go flying in pieces, but you cannot care less.

“Whoa, hey, man,” Dionysus has the nerve to pout at you. “That was my favorite one.”

But he is not fighting back. Part of you wants him to struggle against you. In reality, all of you does, but Dionysus has never been one to swing fists at those that does not pose him harm. You shred his tunic to pieces around his body, leaving the strips of fabric-like willow he uses as makeshift sandals on his calves and feet. Your mouth is watering when you discover that his lower half is not wrapped in undergarments, just like you.

How provocative, you think to yourself, but you admire the sculpted vee of his hips. You visually trace the trail of deep indigo fur below his navel. You try your damnedest not to salivate at the sight of the hard length jutting from between his very defined thighs. Everything about Dionysus seduces you as much as it repels you, and you being the god of war and wrath, can not resist.

Like a moth to a flame, you close in on him, dragging your incisors down the column of his exposed throat. He yelps, the sound vibrating from his throat and through your teeth. It is _glorious_. Your divine soul soaks it up like a sponge. Your fingernails set to work again, carving into Dionysus’ built arms, catching on every groove. They make angry welts over his skin, biting into him until gilded ichor pours from the wounds you make. They close up just as fast though; Dionysus will never bleed as much as a human does.

You gasp when the god gets a grip on your throbbing cock and pumps you in his hold. How long has it been since you last succumbed to carnal desires? War on the surface of the earth has kept you preoccupied, now that the humans have built new weapons of mass destruction. You can barely remember the last time you have lain with someone for your own pleasure, but perhaps it is because of the wicked way Dionysus’ wrist twists just _so_ that chases your memories away. You will live in the moment with him, right now, his action is telling you.

Going lower, you nip and suck superficial marks into Dionysus’ flesh. They bloom and fade as soon as you leave them, like lilac and buttercup meadows in the month of May. His abdomen is supple yet sturdy like marble as you lathe over the lines of his muscles there, quivering lightly.

His palm has since left your member- even your spine flexibility as a god can only go so far- when your face lines up with his own length. It lies heavily on his belly, flushed a burgundy hue that is all too fitting. His shape is gorgeous, like he is wont to be, thicker where you are longer. Precum oozes from the tip in sticky pools. You crave to taste him.

Dionysus nearly leaps off the bed when you lap a thick stripe over the vein located on the underside of his cock. If not for your quick reflexes, he would have jammed right into your jaw. You hold him down by the hips with crushing strength, swirling your tongue around the blunt head. Brackish flavor fills your senses, but it is not unpleasant. In fact, it makes your own arousal twitch, anxious to continue.

So, you do. You take Dionysus into your hot cavern, sucking him with vigor until he is nudging the back of your throat. Thin tears well around the rims of your eyelids, but all you want is more. Your nose is buried in the thick, midnight bushels of his groin. You start a harsh rhythm, up and down, deeper and deeper. Dionysus groans loudly, head craned so he can see you choke and sputter uncomfortably on his cock. It hurts, gagging like this, but your inner power loves how close it is to inflicted suffering, although not quite.

Dionysus lifts his knees, the soles of his feet resting on the sheets. He is leaning on his elbows, eyes half-lidded as he observes your every move.

“By the gods,” he rasps. “Ares. _Ares_. I’m going to come like this.”

An idea strikes you then, and your sex twinges with interest. Your mouth releases Dionysus with an audible pop, and your oropharynx thanks you for the reprieve. Then, you are sinking lower, lower until you find that ripe pucker between his tawny globes. Oh, how you long to penetrate him right now; to find purchase for yourself, but the urge to do something else is too strong to pass up. You should be ashamed, giving into your every desire, but right now, you cannot find it in you to mind.

You flit your tongue over Dionysus’ hole, noticing the way it winks beneath your dorsum. He is like ambrosia to you, though more heady, musky, and less like the syrupy aftertaste that the drink has. You find that you like it, want more of it, and go in for seconds.

Dionysus fists your silver locks as you ingurgitate his taste. He throws back his head in seeming ecstasy, rough groans erupting from his vocal cords. Eventually, your forefinger finds its path and joins your tongue, teasing the rim like it is waiting for an invitation to slip inside the god receiving your ministrations.

Dionysus has half the mind to nod at you frantically, abdomen shaking as he locks eyes with you briefly. He wants it, bad, but you do not play for anyone but yourself, and you are keen on demonstrating this to him. You wait until he whines, “What’s got you caught, Ares? And here I thought we were on the same page, man.”

His sentence is entirely too coherent for your liking, not that you will ever admit this to him.

Instead of one digit, you push both your fore- and middle finger to his entrance, giving him no chance to acclimate to the sudden breach. Unexpectedly, Dionysus shouts his surprise. His sphincter clamps down on your fingers as you pump them back and forth in a punishing rhythm. In honesty, you do not need to prep him like this, but you figure it is fun to see him wriggle and writhe for a while. You begin assaulting his hole again with your tongue, hearing his shout turn into swears, then tiny whimpers. They come out with each punch in, and you can only imagine what it will be like when you shove your aching cock inside and ride him for what he is worth.

Dionysus attempts to buck his hips, to no avail. You are slipping your tongue inside him, worshipping him with fervor. You feel soreness developing in your thrusting hand, but you continue, trying to find the spot that will ultimately bring Dionysus the closest to rapture without dying. You crook your fingers, searching.

“Ah— there!” exclaims the god of wine. His breath hitches almost comically as the pads of your fingers brush over a raised nub. You press against it some more. “Ares! Oh, so good.”

You remove your mouth and fingers from him. “Do not be so full of yourself,” you scoff. 

“But I’m not,” Dionysus retorts, “I’m not full. And I need to be.” You quirk a brow. “Take me, Ares. I need it. Need you.”

You suppose it cannot be helped; you want to claim him just as equally.

Your body is on autopilot when you scoot up to your knees. Now kneeling, you bring Dionysus’ legs over your shoulders and bend him in half. With his ass raised, you guide your pulsating cock to his entrance.

“Take me,” he repeats, face open and expression raw.

So you do, not for him, but for you. You sheath yourself with so much force that Dionysus grunts his discomfort, thorax sliding up the bed a little. There is no need for you to bottom out, because you set the pace right away, hips slamming his, similar to the technique you use to bludgeon an opponent. Your length pushes in and out of him, spearing Dionysus repeatedly; relentlessly. 

You realize then that you have been dreaming of this for some time, whether your subconscious has told you or not. Dionysus feels heavenly around you, tight like a vise and velvety. He moans unabashedly, rutting to meet you in the middle of your tyrade upon his body.

No one has survived such a brute pounding like this before, not that you have exactly unleashed your base desires through sex. Normally, you are less unforgiving, showing some semblance of self restraint so your partner does not cower in fear under you. But Dionysus is doing nothing of that kind. The not-so-quiet praises spew from his mouth, voicing his pleasure. It is almost as if he is… like he is _narrating_ for you.

It is asinine, you surmise, but Dionysus has every right to be, for he is the god of wine and madness. The Fates allow him to call your name, beg, tell you how unbelievably wonderful you feel while you wreck him inside-out.

Somewhere along the way, his legs have slipped from your shoulders, dangling purposelessly. You notice that while the angle is still good, it could be better. Your elbows twine around his hewed calves, using them as leverage to fuck into him harder, faster.

Dionysus loses his ability to piece together sentences then, only calling out your name like a mantra. His muscles beneath his ochre tone ripple as he hangs on for dear life. His head lolls, coming to rest on his sternum. His knuckles turn light with how tight he is clutching the bed sheets. He looks so lost in feel-good, of everything you are doing to him; for yourself.

It is time you put your lumbar into your thrusts, driving into him with a ferocity no one can best but all the Titans combined.

Dionysus positively wails at your display of vehemence. His “yes” and “more” and “please” suffocate you both, the atmosphere around you dampening with humidity from your Olympian bodies. You allow a sheen of sweat to coat your flesh like a fine lacquer on wood, some of it dripping off your heavy set brow. Your shoulders hunch and your hips never stop jabbing into Dionysus’ core. The slap of skin against skin reverberates through your chambers, resonating and ringing in your ears. It is a cacophony of noise, yet it sounds like a melody made personally for him and you.

But like all good things, they come to an end, and this instance with Dionysus is no exception. A peak in your veins starts, then builds. It rises higher; you believe you are not far off from climaxing. By the looks of it, Dionysus is close too.

As much as you would like to be, you are not so cruel to ignore his weeping cock, which bounces with each thrust. You take him into your hand, fondling him deftly. Dionysus sobs into the air, saliva collecting so thickly that it begins to drip from the corner of his maw. You keep jerking him at a break-wrist rhythm even when he tenses, so taut that you faintly wonder if he will snap. You draw back his foreskin just the way you like to do it to yourself.

“Coming, coming..!” He clenches down on you, unyielding. Then just as he says, Dionysus releases.

Thick spurts of his seed coat your fingertips and his belly. Quakes erupt through him like an oceanic wave, flooding his senses as he orgasms with such power that it would surely overturn several banquet tables if they were in the near vicinity. Dionysus looks like a painting, and you find yourself fascinated, marveling at his beauty. You are still in awe when he grits his teeth and swivels his pelvis in time with your own charging hips.

Nothing is halting you from tipping over the edge. You put everything you have into the last few lunges within Dionysus, unable to do anything but focus on piledriving him. Passion stacks on top of itself, ramps up until it can no more. One, two, three more stabs of your cock, and you are falling into euphoria’s open embrace.

It is like cotton stuffs your ears, muffles you from listening to your own howls of rhapsody. Your entire head is filled with buzzing similar to that of a beehive. Heat engulfs you like you are being burned on a pyre; it feels exquisite, just what you need. You come and come and come. Nothing exists here except you and Dionysus, who are caught in the web of bliss. You are unsure, in this moment, where you begin and where he ends, but it does not matter. Everything is absolutely perfect, no caution or doubts in your tiny bubble of elation.

You barely remember coming down from the high, but when you do, Dionysus can barely contain the beaming grin that threatens to split his face in two. Satisfied, you collapse over him, just existing until you can get your joints to flex and your limbs to stir. You two stay like this, basking in the aftermath like you do not have mortals waiting for you on the surface, crying for your attention. There is an underlying tenderness right now that frightens you, but you refuse to bring it up; ignore it and accept whatever this is worth for now.

Eventually, Dionysus speaks for the both of you, “Wow, Ares. Just wow.” He scoops up the cum on his stomach and swallows it down, causing your softened cock to twitch in earnest.

You look away and grunt at him in response. Your time is up. He mewls when your length slides from him, a sticky trail of spend— you did this- staining his inner thighs. You will not tell him that you wish to stay and rest for a few minutes with his warm body wrapped around yours.

“So?” Dionysus says, “We good, man? Amends made?”

“I think it is clear that you have made amends with me, Dionysus,” you acquiesce. You guess that you and he are done here. As much as you hate it, you plan to lick your emotional wounds in silence and solitude. “You may leave, if you wish.”

But then, Dionysus is ensnaring you in his arms and not so much wrestling as guiding you to your side. You lie next to him, too stunned to speak. Dionysus kisses your cheeks, then brings your left hand to his lips. Your eyes widen at his gesture. 

“Humor me?” he asks you.

Humor him? You have never had this happen to you before. Does he know what he is getting himself into? Still, the request is much too tempting to refuse, for this is what you desire deep down. So you decide, perhaps just this once, to let yourself see where it goes. Maybe this is not much a predicament, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> BONUS—  
> Dionysus: didn’t think you were a cuddler, man  
> Ares: shut the fuck up
> 
> Catch me over on twit @ra9ical!


End file.
